Residua
by blijven
Summary: Students who were in their seventh year during the Second Wizarding War are now being given the option to return for an additional year to make up for any schooling they'd missed. Centers around exploring Draco/Harry post-war, but includes other characters here and there. Feelingz. Rated just in case.
1. Carry On

_**Author's Note:** Hello and welcome! This is my first Drarry fic (I know, I'm behind the times!)—it takes place after The War, in which previous seventh years are given a choice to return to Hogwarts to make up for the year they lost. This has been so fun to write—hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 **DRACO**

This was the first year that I found myself sitting alone on the train. There were a couple of others in the compartment, to be sure, but none that I knew personally. Or cared to know. Besides, after all that's transpired, I wouldn't be surprised if people chose to keep their distance. Better that way, even.

I remembered receiving the letter over the summer—an invitation for us, the previous seventh years, to return to Hogwarts to make up for the time we lost during the War. I'd stared at the parchment for a full five minutes before anything truly sunk in. _Why?_ I had thought. _Did any of it matter anymore?_

"This must be their attempt at instilling a sense of normalcy," my father had said rather coldly, emphasizing the word 'attempt' in a way that suggested that he didn't think much of it.

"Lucius," my mother had replied, sounding a touch reprimanding. But she left it at that, most likely because she didn't entirely disagree.

Despite their disdain, however, she ended up being adamant about me finishing up my schooling. I suspect my father had some influence in that; he knows that I've always been more prone to her wishes. Even more so now.

"You are to carry on to restore the family name," she'd stated with little to no room for argument. "You will _not_ be the first in the family to leave their education incomplete."

My family seemed to have adopted an even stiffer upper lip after The War. Sometimes, it almost felt like nothing had really changed. Or perhaps that's what they wanted so badly to believe.

I didn't share that particular illusion.

I felt like something had been sucked out of me, but I wasn't sure what, exactly.

Sometimes, I felt... old.

In the end, I had agreed to go back to Hogwarts. Perhaps this would be a way to get closure, or some sappy sentiment like that. So here I was, staring out the window, watching the scenery blur by—so hauntingly familiar. I could see myself if I stopped focusing. Face was a touch gaunt. The dark circles under my eyes were proving to be rather stubborn.

It felt strange, as it did every time I stood in front of the mirror these days, to feel disconnected from the body that was reflected.

Still looked good, though. The day I let myself go will be the day I die.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Halfway through the ride, the compartment door hastily slid open. Judging by the way things grew silent for a few seconds before bursting forth with a renewed, fevered pitch, it was evident this was no ordinary visitor. And there was no mistaking who it was.

"Oh Merlin, it's Harry Potter!"

I turned my head ever so slightly, watching the fuss. The two girls—fifth years, maybe—who had previously been very careful to not speak to me, were open in their admiration of him.

If Potter had been regarded as a celebrity before the War, he was now most assuredly a legend. I was surprised that the two hadn't asked him to sign their forearms with permanent ink.

"I'm so glad you're coming back this year!" gushed the pretty brunette as her friend nodded. "Are you feeling recovered from... well, things? I heard Ron's not coming back—will you miss him?" Her questions were like darts. "I'm Allison, by the way! And this is Ingrid."

I wasn't interested in listening to this drivel in the slightest, but in such a small space, I hardly had a choice.

"Oh, er, hello. Yes, I'm well," he told them, sounding a bit flustered. _Not_ that I was looking, but it seemed like he was trying to catch my eye. I ignored him. "Ron's doing well, too," he added, obviously not having heard the question properly.

Typical.

"Actually, I was hoping that I could get a moment with Malfoy. Alone," he continued, and the girls turned to me as if noticing me for the first time. Actresses, the lot of them. They looked disappointed but were unable to refuse a request from their idol. So they left, trying to make him promise to still be in this compartment when the train arrived at school.

The door slid shut, and then it was just the two of us. He took a seat diagonally from me, a respectable distance. Fine. I turned my head to face him, raising a brow. "Yes?" This was the first I'd seen him since the last battle. It was easy to slide into contempt, but...

He still looked the same—scar, spectacles, unruly hair, and too-often ruddy face, as it was now. However, I couldn't help but notice how he also seemed to have slight circles under his eyes.

"I wanted to return this to you," he said, producing an object from somewhere within his robes, holding it out to me. It was my old wand.

"I've already got a new one." I tried my best to hide my surprise with a slight sneer, and didn't make a move to take it from him. Yes, the new wand performed much poorer than the original, but that was to be expected of a hand-me-down dug up from some dusty reaches of the vault.

"Well, I thought you should have it, anyway," he pressed, brandishing the wand at me.

Alright. I really wanted the thing. Every wand that I've used since felt… wrong. Less. But I'd fantasized about seeing it carried by some random witch or wizard and wresting it triumphantly from their grasp, or finding it at my doorstep on a crisp Saturday morning. I didn't like thinking about how Potter might still have it—I'd rather boil in a cauldron than ask for it back from him. So I suppose this was a decent turn of events.

"Well, since you're practically begging," I said coolly, taking it from him gingerly, making sure to avoid touching any of his fingers.

The old Potter I knew would've probably reddened and sputtered in response, but this new Potter seemed too tired to do so. I knew the feeling.

"Right well, that's that," he said at length, seeming to study me. I met his gaze, unflinching. He got up, making his way to the door.

"Is Granger coming back as well?" The words came tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop them. I didn't _really_ care—it was probably out of guilt.

He looked surprised, then a touch defensive. "Yes, she is."

"Huh," I said dismissively.

His hand had been ready to slide the door open, but it paused. "Are any of your... er, is Goyle?"

"No."

He hadn't want to face everyone at school, said that it wasn't worth it all. His parents had agreed, saying that it was best that he stay home until some time passed and things blew over. Smart man.

"Er, alright then. I'll see you around."

"Most likely," I conceded.

I watched him leave, the door shutting behind him. I sat in silence for a length of time, twirling my old wand between my fingers as I waited for the tight feeling in my stomach to dissipate.

I closed my eyes for the rest of the way, ignoring the rabble when they returned, wishing that I had the energy to summon earplugs.

"Is he sleeping?" one of them whispered.

 _Yes, Allison. Potter is so dull that he put me to sleep. Now sod off._


	2. The Boy Who Lived Five Times

_**Author's Note:** Thanks for reading! It's been really fun to write so far—hope you enjoy. (: More Draco/Harry to come, obvs!_

* * *

 **HARRY**

I found Hermione after the Sorting Ceremony just as students were settling into their seats, ready for the Start-of-Term Feast.

"Oh, Harry!" she had cried, immediately flinging her arms about me. "I've missed you!"

I think I had muttered something about "pleaselet'ssitdown" (closely followed by an "I'vemissedyoutoo"). I just wanted to eat without being investigated by hundreds of curious stares, though I knew that it was too naive of a hope. It almost felt like I was being transported to my first year at Hogwarts, or when everyone found out that I was the Chosen One.

I knew full well that coming back would train that searing spotlight on me even more searingly. After all, I was the Boy Who Lived Five Times And Then Offed Voldemort—or something to that extent. A hero, a savior, a martyr—I've heard it all. But I wanted to come back. It felt like the proper thing to do: a tribute to my mum and dad, as well as a way to say goodbye to the place I've come to regard as home in many ways. Though, something tells me that the Invisibility Cloak will get a lot of use this year.

I _had_ missed Hermione. After the funeral service for Fred, I hadn't seen her much during the summer, since she'd mostly been with Ron and his family. It helped with the grieving, she'd written in a letter, though I knew that without her having to say it. Sometimes it seemed like she still felt compelled to spell everything out for me and Ron. Well... I get it.

Ron had decided not to come back to Hogwarts. "What's the point?" he had penned in a letter of his own. "Never got top marks, never will. Thinking I might help George out at the shop, though."

"So. Did you manage to return Draco's wand?" Hermione asked, pointing her goblet at me as if to get my attention.

"Oh. Yeah," I replied, mouth full of casserole. Of course, I had told her about my plan in one of my letters—an indirect way of fishing for her advice.

"Was he happy about it?" She sounded dubious.

"Well..." I thought back to our exchange in the carriage. He was the same Draco Malfoy, but kind of like a dragon who'd gotten a lot of its teeth pulled out. A bit deflated and cagey, but still very much a fire-breathing beast. I've sort of gotten used to his inability to accept assistance or muster up a single word of gratitude. I've saved his life a couple of times, but I'm pretty sure he thinks we're even.

"He sneered at me, so I'm guessing he was."

Hermione rolled her eyes as she took a sip of her pumpkin juice. "Honestly! Some people just won't change, even after... You were doing him a favor, for goodness sake!"

"Mmf," I responded, having tucked into some sprouts. I shrugged. I really hadn't taken any sort of offense—it was more about doing what was right.

She shot me a funny sort of look. "Anyway... how's Grimmauld Place coming along?"

"Alright," I said, then hastily continuing when it was clear from Hermione's expression that she expected more than monosyllabic answers for the remainder of the evening. "No luck with finding a way around the Permanent Sticking Charm—had to board up the portrait of Sirius' mum to muffle her shrieking. It gets old after the seventeenth 'mudblood'."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "That's not even an accurate accusation. Anyway, I think I've managed to find a spell for that pesky charm—I'll come over some time," she offered (decided, rather). If it were up to her, that portrait would be stuffed behind a large dresser in the remotest part of the house. "I hope you took down those awful mounted house-elf heads. Barbaric." She looked at me expectantly. Everyone within a hundred meter radius knew how she felt about house-elves.

"I moved them," I told her truthfully. I didn't really have to walk past them that often, but I'd like to think that they better enjoyed being in their own room than a hallway.

"And which room did you decide to sleep in, in the end?"

"Oh, er, Sirius'." I don't know why I felt awkward saying this.

"Oh, um, well of course! How could I forget...?" She cut herself off, embarrassed. I'm pretty certain she felt like she had to tip-toe around the subject still. Well, I couldn't blame her. It's not like I've been exactly eager to talk about Sirius.

"Yeah, I mean—it's okay," I said quickly. I hated seeing Hermione squirm. "I actually really like his room. Though, I tried taking down some of the pictures of girls, but I couldn't—"

"Oh yes, also the Permanent Sticking Charm, which I can remedy," she interrupted, nodding knowingly.

"—right. Well, I think Sirius would've liked to keep them up. At least they're Muggle magazine photos, so they don't move about. That would be chaotic." I found myself smiling, happily surprised to be able to talk about him in a normal sort of way—the twinges that used to swim around in my chest whenever I thought about him felt less pronounced. "And the Gryffindor decorations are very festive."

Hermione seemed relieved. "Well, maybe we could all come over during the holidays this year, spend a night or two."

"I'd like that," I responded almost immediately. The thought was cheering. The place could use some company, and so could I.

"I know you didn't want to go back there, initially," she said softly, chewing on her lip. "But I think it's a step in the right direction."

Hermione was seldom wrong.

We spent the remainder of the feast talking about what classes we were taking this year, with Hermione reminding me to take my studies seriously so that I could pass my N.E.W.T.s because what would be the point of everything if I didn't.

It was good to be back.


	3. The Other Team

**DRACO**

Did I _want_ back on the Quidditch team? Maybe.

Maybe if my hands hadn't decided to develop tremors at the most inconvenient times like an ninety-five year old invalid. They came when I held onto something for too long, like a toothbrush or a quill. I've found ways around it—generally, brushing one's teeth is a private act, and there's a market for automatic quills. But Quidditch involved an excessive amount of scrutinizing, and I'd sooner feed myself to a basilisk than give people more opportunities to whisper to each other how sad and passé Draco Malfoy had become.

I was content to watch, however, and so I found myself at the pitch, sitting in the rafters. Alone, of course.

The solitude still felt a little strange. I'd never really bothered to understand Crabbe and Goyle, but that didn't change the fact that they'd been constants for a good portion of my life. I mean, I'm sure the superficiality was mutual—they stuck with me because I was a Malfoy, and I let them because I came to relish having two yes-men.

When Crabbe died in that room that day, I'd be lying if I said that I'd shed a tear.

I know—I'm scum.

But I've learned that the more you hold dear, the more you lose. And I hate losing.

I noticed the red- and gold-clad figures ascending, and I could see a rather obese boy teetering on his—what was it, a Cleansweep Four? or some similarly outdated model. He looked as if he were about to fall right off instead of chucking the Quaffle that he was desperately clutching under one of his pendulous arms. Fortunate for him that they hadn't brought out the Bludgers yet.

Oh, speak of the devils.

Some people were yelling at him now, probably a mixture of encouragement and exasperation, and he finally managed a feeble throw. I felt the familiar excitement begin to bubble up, the kind I reserved for spectating try-outs. It's always been very entertaining to watch newbies struggle along.

However, much to my dismay, the usual shiny feeling felt... stuck. And small.

I thought I'd get a lot more satisfaction out of watching this ruckus, with people crashing into each other and missing easy goals. I was surprised that I wasn't howling in laughter when Cleansweep Four Boy nearly got hit in the face by a Beater hopeful. Instead, I found myself feeling a little sick at the thought of his nose being splintered by a very solid bat.

My plan to cheer myself up was definitely backfiring.

That is, until I came to be distracted by an unmistakable fluttering sound near my ears. I turned my head the slightest fraction and saw a glint of gold. The Snitch. Its presence was so mundane and familiar that it was somehow reassuring. I made a casual gesture to catch it, but of course it evaded all too easily and zipped around my head, taunting me.

I caught sight of the two who were obviously wanting to fill the Seeker position—they were flying about in search of the thing, looking rather discouraged. Neither of them seemed to know what they were doing. Classic Gryffindor.

I watched them give up and fly back towards the ground in defeat. _Throwing in the towel already?_ I could feel a smirk tugging at my lips. _Proof that not everyone has an eye for detail._

My thoughts were suddenly cut short as I was nearly bowled over by someone else astride a broomstick.

" _Bloody_ hell," I snapped, reflexively shielding my face.

"Sorry, didn't see you there," came an altogether too recognizable voice from somewhere behind me.

"I _seriously_ doubt that." I turned around to squint through the sunlight in order to confirm my suspicions, but by that time he'd already flown in front of me with the Snitch in hand, its wings windmilling about frantically.

Of _course_ Potter was here. I had considered the possibility, but ultimately figured he wouldn't want even more attention to be heaped on his already overflowing plate. Wrong.

"Er, have you come to try out?" he asked. The captain's badge pinned to his robes gleamed at me.

I've noticed that Potter has a certain way of making inane chatter sound as if he were genuinely interested. He seemed dead serious, which was concerning. I looked at him with an expression of great pity.

"Yes, after all these years, I've decided—on a lark—to play for the other team," I said.

Potter just looked at me, not saying a word. He seemed nervous. No. He was biting his lip, most likely to keep from giggling like an eleven year-old boy who'd just told his first real off-color joke.

 _For fuck's sake._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 **HARRY**

Well, double entendres have always been one of my weaknesses (much to Hermione's dismay).

Malfoy began to massage the spot between his brows, as if he were getting a migraine just by being in my presence. "So did you come here to show off or have a laugh? Or is it to fish for a 'thank you' for returning my wand?"

"Actually, I was fetching the Snitch, since try-outs just ended—no one trying out for the backup position managed to find it," I said, apparently unable to stop myself from over-explaining.

I braced myself for a remark about Gryffindor caliber.

"Well, you got what you wanted, so you can fly away now," he ended up drawling instead. He made a dismissive gesture with one hand, the other smoothing strands of pale blonde hair back into place where they'd come loose from our near collision.

Watching him, I was reminded about how I'd described him in my head as being a deflated dragon. During the last year, I found myself feeling sorry for him despite everything. Ever since... that day—on the Astronomy tower, he seemed like a puppet. A broken one. Not that I was any better off, in the end. Weirdly, I guess I felt like I understood him. Like I could understand how waking up every day could become a chore, how the sun was too bright, arrogant, and false, how things you once looked forward to now seemed insignificant and stupid. You didn't want them to be that way, but they just were, whether you liked it or not.

I must've been staring at Malfoy for some length of time without saying anything. "Did you hear what I said?" He looked impatient as he crossed his arms. "You can—"

My reverie broken, I interrupted him with words that I apparently decided to string together. "Are you—how are you? Doing, I mean. Lately. Not right this moment, necessarily—but that could work."

Predictably, he looked confused. Then a bit put off, by the way his lip was curling. "Just fine," he replied, emphasizing the last word as if he were imbuing it with snake venom. "What's it to you, Potter?"

 _Well, you seem very alone,_ I wanted to say. _I'm sort of used to seeing you surrounded by your henchmen._ But that wouldn't have gone over too well, I don't think. I've never been very good with sentiments. _I feel bad for you._ I mean, it was true, but perhaps not best thing to say either. _You look sad now, instead of maddeningly haughty._ Worse.

"Nothing," I opted to say in the end, to which his face twitched in an odd sort of way. "I mean, glad to hear you're alright," I added quickly. "I know things have been hard—"

"Spare me the valedictorian speech," he cut through, though I couldn't shake the thought that his expression reminded me somewhat of a wounded animal. "The War, it's over—everything's over. It's time to move on. And the last thing I'd want is to be is another one of your charity cases."

"I don't do charity cases, actually," I shot back, feeling the heat rise in my neck now. He somehow always knew the exact buttons to push. "And is it really the worst thing in the world for me to just _ask_ how you're doing?" I felt like I was shouting but hoped that I wasn't.

At this, he fell silent. I shifted my weight on the broomstick, wary.

"It really is," he finally said, seeming very tired.

"Well," I began, urging myself to sound even. "For the record, I _do_ want to... well, know. So, er, well, if you need someone to talk to..." I trailed off, filled with the buzz of awkward courage.

I'm not quite sure where this doggedness was coming from. I chalked it up to liking to prove people wrong. And killing them with... well, not necessarily kindness—doing the right thing, more like.

"Knock yourself out, Potter. Which, knowing you, you will."

"Yeah. Well." I could never out-retort him. Believe me, I've tried, and it always ends up sounding mangled. If warfare were strictly verbal, I'd be at a disadvantage—probably why he could get under my skin so easily.

"Okay, so. I'll see you around," I concluded lamely, remembering that that's exactly how I ended our last conversation.

The Snitch had given up its struggling by now and sat docilely between my palm and fingers. I tightened my grip on it and flew back down towards the ground (perhaps a bit too quickly). Only the equipment case was left. I put the Snitch back into its place behind the crest and clicked the box shut, then hefting it up by the handle. The Bludgers continued to rattle inside.

Well, as far as I could tell, that hadn't been an outright "no."

I allowed myself a small smile and didn't look back.


	4. Voices

**DRACO**

The library, ironically, had quickly become one of my preferred places to be. It's where silence reigned and where being by one's self was perfectly acceptable. Encouraged, even. Fitting for my loner modus operandi this year. I used to have a reputation to uphold—in the past, I'd do my readings and exercises somewhere outside or in bed after everyone had gone to sleep so that I wouldn't be made to look like a speccy swot.

Funny how things can change. Now, my studies offered me solace—they grounded me, gave me some semblance of purpose. Above all, they made me feel like I could excel again in some arena.

As I flipped to the next chapter of my Charms book, absentmindedly mouthing the incantations printed on the page, I found my thoughts drifting once again to Potter's incoherent display of concern at the pitch weeks ago. As much as I couldn't shake the feeling that it was some sort of trap, it hadn't been _entirely_ unpleasant. At the very least, it broke the monotony of being the subject of whispers and stares. I would catch some of the younger Slytherins giving me looks of stricken awe, but most other students weren't so discreet about their opinions of me.

I'd loosely kept in touch with Pansy during the summer, and she'd scoffed—to put it lightly—at the idea of returning.

"And be reminded every day that we're villains? No thank you," she'd spat. "Only idiot Slytherins would go back to Hogwarts for an eighth year."

That was me—the one idiot Slytherin.

From the numerous trials to the droves of Howlers that kept bursting into flames at my doorstep over the summer, it's been made fairly clear to me that I'm expected to sleep in the bed I've made for myself. Former Death Eater. Son of a Death Eater.

Yet there's some part of me... a needy voice inside my head that's still quietly screaming that I am not who I've become. But too often it's overpowered by another: _You repulsive wretch. Spineless people-pleaser. Wanted to make daddy proud, did you? Didn't want to be just Mummy's boy. Wanted to earn some respect for once instead buying it—isn't that right? Pathetic._

I slammed my book shut a little too forcefully, the sound echoing. Bloody tremors.

Shakily, I pointed my wand towards my chest like I've done a thousand times before. I felt a warmth seep through my body, shoulders instantly sagging from relief. My head felt a touch giddy, but I was beginning to learn that the Cheering Charm's effects grew less effective with chronic use.

I heard a shuffling, and soon Madam Pince was peering down at me. "I _thought_ I'd heard someone," she said, pursing her lips. "Mr. Malfoy, must I remind you yet again that the library closes at 8 p.m.?"

"No, that's not necessary," I replied in one of the more courteous tones I've heard myself use, gathering my things. I walked past her, avoiding her gaze.

I could go a night without having to see the pity that welled so openly in her dark eyes.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

What the Cheering Charm couldn't alleviate, Firewhisky made up for. It helped purge the voices and the scenes that played over and over again in my mind like treacherous, never-ending photographs. Shutting my eyes only made things worse. The most frequent visitors were the Fiendfyre, the Astronomy Tower, Charity Burbage.

Numb was good.

With each hour that passed, the Three Broomsticks grew rowdier and rowdier. That's how it usually went, but tonight being Hallows' Eve, it was practically filled to the teeth with students dressed up in all sorts of garish costumes. Tables quickly became a rare commodity, and the three empty seats at mine were soon overtaken, though I noticed that it was only after all others had been filled. I found myself face to face with a rather big-boned Gryffindor, who made an obvious show of sizing me up.

"Where're your goons, Malfoy?" He leaned closer to me, and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. Or was it on mine? It was hard to tell.

His two friends laughed nervously.

"Well, for starters, one of them is dead," I said flatly, setting my drink down onto the table.

He blinked stupidly for a couple of seconds. Then: "You and your parents should be in Azkaban! How do you even have the nerve to show your face here after all the... all the _things_ you've done?" His face contorted as my jaw clenched, and my hand went reflexively to my wand.

His eyes followed the movement. "Going to use an Unforgivable on me, are you?" he taunted, sounding defiant. One of his friends murmured something to him, putting a hand on his shoulder, but I couldn't hear the words through the thick feeling that was forming in my head.

"Is that what you'd like me to do?" I asked quietly. His friends now looked rather pale.

"You haven't the bollocks, Malfoy! I've heard all about you—how yellow-bellied you really are!"

My grip on my wand tightened. I could feel my nails digging into the flesh of my palm, knuckles straining. I could do it. The copious amount of Firewhisky in me told me I could.

Instead, I stood up roughly, shoving the table towards the trio. "I know what you're trying to do," I hissed, my brains sloshing around inside my skull now that I was upright. "And it's not going to work. You think you're so brave, sitting there with your empty, heroic words—talking to me as if you actually know me. Fuck off." I turned and fumbled my way through the throngs of bodies to get to the entrance.

Once outside, I took a few steps into a narrow alley and retched.


	5. Burdens and Strengths

_**Author's Note:** Ahhh finally! Thanks so much for reading, you guys, and for your patience! This chapter was a lot of writing and rewriting and exploration. (: Takes place right after the last chapter, as you'll see. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 **HARRY**

I know I'd said that it felt like I'd been transported back to my first or sixth year at Hogwarts, but I was starting to see that there were less similarities than I initially thought. It might sound mad, but I actually preferred the way it was back then, with people trying to knock me down a few pegs just for being Harry Fucking Potter. At least I had felt somewhat normal. Now, I faced a sea of smiles with too much teeth and endless questions about What Really Happened. And some people eyed me in a way that made me feel like they wanted to rub my head for good luck, like some sort of talisman.

Driven by necessity, I'd quickly discovered that one of the few places in the castle to catch a sliver of peace and quiet was the prefect's bathroom around midnight. In hindsight, a very good thing that I'd accepted resuming my post as Quidditch captain.

As I leant back against the stone surface of the bath, watching fuzzy outlines of multi-colored bubbles drift lazily upwards, my thoughts shifted to Cedric. Sometimes when I'm here, I let myself think about him. Sometimes, I wish I'd never told him that we should both take the cup. I should've just heeded my selfish urges. Or, if my reflexes had been faster, I could've done something. Disarmed Peter. Jumped in front of Cedric. At which point could I have changed the outcome?

The guilt still trails me, never far behind, like some kind of lost animal.

I started when I heard the door open, scrabbling reflexively for my glasses on the marble and jamming them onto my face. I've never encountered anyone here so late.

"Well well, what are the odds." Malfoy heaved an exaggerated sigh through his teeth as he approached, stopping short of where I was. His hair was loose and his shirt was very wrinkled. (It's not that my shirts are neatly pressed, it's just that I've noticed that his always are.) And I could smell him—a blend of alcohol, sweat, and... something sour.

Apparently I was staring.

"Have something to say, Potter?"

"Er," I said, unsure if I did or not. I hadn't pegged him as the type to cavort about in the name of Hallows' Eve. When I had nothing to add, he threw up his hands and headed towards the bathrooms. Halfway, he stumbled and swore so profusely that the mermaid blushed and hid behind her hair.

He emerged a few moments later with a towel wound around his waist, though it looked like it was about to make an escape.

It did.

I averted my gaze, pretending like my slightly pruny fingers were engrossing beyond belief.

I heard him give a too-loud, sardonic laugh as he got into the bathwater. "You've always been _so_ easy to read, Potter."

"Wha—no I'm not!" I countered articulately. I cast him a suspicious look, wondering if he were referring to how piss poor I was at Occlumency and how he'd possibly know that. "At least I say what I mean." I mentally congratulated myself on a decent comeback.

"I assume you're suggesting that I don't," he said, draping his arms over the edge of the pool. "I'm feeling generous tonight. Ask me anything and I'll _say what I mean_."

I tried to keep the disbelief from my face as my thoughts whirled. _Why are you here? How come you're sloshed? Do you still want to hex me every time you see me?_

When I looked up, I found him studying me, and I couldn't explain the warmth that crept up my neck and vibrated against the back of my skull.

"Well, how have you been lately?"

He looked at me like I was thicker than one of Hagrid's homemade desserts. "Out of all the questions, you're going to waste it on _that_ one?"

"Yes," I maintained, mulish.

He shrugged. "Suit yourself. I've been—" He appeared to catch himself. "—better."

"Rough night?"

He unscrewed a flask that he seemed to have conjured out of thin air and took a long pull from it. "Standard night."

"That's a bit concerning, honestly..." I trailed off as he gave me a sharp look.

"What's with you this year, Potter? Seriously. Why are you so obsessed with—" he struggled, brow furrowing. "—with how I'm doing? Like I'm going to off myself at any moment. Did someone put you up to this? McGonagall? My parents?"

I blinked, surprised. "What? No, of course not!"

"Solid defense, as usual," he said acridly.

"Well... are you? Going to...? I mean, have you thought about it?"

His narrowed eyes bored into mine. "Is that what you're hoping for? Maybe if you're lucky, you'll get what you want sooner than later."

I felt myself getting annoyed—mostly at myself, for always being the bull in some china shop or the other with my incompetence with words. "That's not what I meant! I wanted to know if you've had those sort of thoughts, because—if you have, I want to—I know what it's like—"

He cut me off. "For fuck's sake—for the _last_ time—I don't need any of your pity _or_ your help. _Fucking_ Gryffindors! _Always_ wanting to play hero, whether it's slaying a dragon or rescuing a damsel in distress. I've got things under control—I've got a system—so you can take your half-arsed mothering elsewhere."

I crossed my arms, ears hot from indignation. "Okay yeah, so I have a hero complex. Is that what you wanted to hear? Not like I had a choice in the matter, really, having been bloody chosen and groomed to save the _entire_ _wizarding world_ the moment my parents were offed." I bit out the last few words, a familiar pang lancing through me. "No one thought to ask me if I'd like to lead a mundane existence instead, did they? Maybe I would've liked that life. You know, one with a mum and dad and... that sort of thing."

I stopped, surprised at the bitterness in my voice, at the misery that was crashing down on me. I thought I'd worked through a lot of this with the counsellor McGonagall had assigned to me, but I guess four months isn't really a reasonable amount of time to get over a lifetime of fucked. Besides, with the counsellor, I often felt like I needed to say the right things—the mature things—to demonstrate measurable progress. I know that isn't the purpose of the sessions, but... I really hate letting people down.

Malfoy looked startled—an expression I wasn't accustomed to seeing on his features. Then:

"You're obviously in dire need of a drink."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Trading depressing confessions made talking to one another that much easier, apparently.

That, and alcohol.

I've always been a lightweight (also known as a cheap date, Ron liked to remind me. Great for the old coin purse, he said). Malfoy asked me if I've drank before (why would he ask that?), and I quickly answered that of course I had.

"Well then why on earth are you making those faces?" He raised a brow.

"What faces? It's just my face," I said, feeling warm.

"You look like someone's stepping on your bollocks every time you take a drink."

"I never said I liked the _taste_ ," I said defensively as I took another swig from the flask just to make a point.

He laughed for the second time tonight—this one actually sounded genuine. I felt myself wanting more of that.

"Right. You just like the effect." He quirked a brow.

"Don't you?"

"Well that's obvious, isn't it? Makes it easier to tolerate things."

"Like me," I joked (only half jokingly).

"Like you," he repeated dryly, though a hint of a smile passed his lips. "And other gits."

"So why'd you come back to school then?"

He let out a long sigh, and with it the circles under his eyes seemed to deepen. "Have to uphold the family name, show everyone that the Malfoys are reformed yet still influential—superficial nonsense. I could care less." He grimaced and turned to me. "And you? How come you're not off signing books, working some choice position at the Ministry, or even just fucking off?"

I tried to gather the reasons. "Well, structure is good. I think I need that for a bit."

At this, he made some sound of grudging agreement, slicking his hair back absentmindedly with a hand wet from the water. The back of my head prickled. I rubbed it, as if that would help.

"I noticed Weasley didn't bother coming back."

"Oh, yeah, he's helping out at the joke shop. It's been good—"

"No, I meant the other Weasley. The girl."

"Oh... Ginny," I said, immediately thinking back to our last argument.

 _"I don't understand what you're saying," she said coldly, looking quite murderous as she put on her shirt._

 _I cradled my head in my hands, my palms pressing into my cheeks, fingertips on my forehead. "I don't either," I confessed, feeling guilty. "I guess I just need some time. Give me some time. There's so much shite going on. I don't know. I need to sort some stuff out by myself."_

 _"But you've already been seeing that counsellor!"_

 _"Yeah... I dunno," I said unhelpfully, exhaling. "I don't know if it's doing much."_

 _"Then why even bother?"_

 _"Maybe it's one of those things that get better with time."_

 _"Unlike us." Her tone was flat and accusing, and she stood perfectly still. "I mean, you've made it pretty obvious that you don't want my help." When I said nothing, she jerked her head towards the door. "You should leave."_

"Yes," Malfoy said pointedly, bringing me back to the present. "That Weasley."

"She, er, decided to take some time off to recuperate."

"That'll make shagging each other a little more difficult then."

If my cheeks had been warm, they were now burning. "I've got other things to worry about."

"Like alphabetizing your fan clubs?" He smirked, seeming to be in extra good spirits. "Or checking in on how suicidal I am?"

"Well, _are_ you?" I pressed, fortified by alcoholic audacity.

"Aren't _you_?"

I paused. While thoughts had crossed my mind, I'd never really acted on any of the impulses. Generally, I just tried to keep afloat and think about positive things to swing me back into a neutral state of mind. Like how it had all been worth it. Right? At a great cost, but ultimately things turned out.

Right?

" _Are you?_ " I insisted instead of answering.

He emptied the flask and tossed it, clattering, onto the marble floor. "What does it matter?" he stated indifferently. I suddenly noticed how thin and angular his body was. Bony. "I can't. I couldn't do that. My mother—she puts on a brave front for everyone—for Father especially—but I know what it'd do to her. You see, such is the burden of family, Potter."

"Or the strength of love," I pointed out, thinking about my parents once more, but this time the pang was much less pronounced.

I expected a snort. Even an eye roll. But he looked pensive, as if considering this for the very first time.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 **DRACO**

I felt something slip from my eye, and I quickly pretended to wash my face by ways of splashing water onto it, determined not to let Potter's stupid greeting card sentiment ruin the good mood I'd stumbled into. They were hard to come by, after all.

Quickly—say something. Anything.

"Don't be a sap," I said.

To my horror, however, the words came out strained and shuddering.

 _Weak._

 _Always so fucking weak._

I wanted to disappear.

"Are you alright?" The words were soft, filtering through the haze.

I looked up and was met with his gaze, his eyes far too green. They weren't pitying. They weren't patronizing. They were earnest, and entirely bewitching.

And that scared me.

Not because I questioned my sexuality. I've known since the day Goyle showed me a dirty magazine with women in all sorts of compromising positions, and all I could think about was how chilly and uncomfortable they must be. Of course, at the time I'd feigned interest and snatched it from his hands, proclaiming that I intended to read it cover to cover, when in reality I wanked to thoughts of some fit and self-assured boy I made up in my head.

Sober me would scoff that at the question. "Of course I am," I'd fling back at him, making sure to sound caustic. Sober me would tell Potter to mind his own business, thanks. Sober me would keep the tears from falling so freely, each one a reminder of the collective failure of my existence. Sober me wouldn't let him watch this wreck of a scene unfold. And sober me certainly wouldn't let him come this close, with eyes so yielding.

Through the mist, I felt his lips. They were dry, and he tasted of whisky and nerves. I could feel the dull staccato of my haywire pulse, threatening to consume me with every jolt.

 _Why me?_

He pulled away, cheeks hopelessly flushed. "Sorry, I—this isn't—" he said, sounding dazed. "This isn't like me."

"What, bent?" was all I could manage, breaths shallow. I found myself afraid of the answer.

"Yeah. No. I dunno." He shook his head like he'd been hit with a Confundus. "What I meant was, I'm not a _lush_."

I laughed until my chest hurt slightly, a strange flood of relief washing over me. "Mm, I'm not convinced."

He chewed his lip, then let out a laugh of his own, the sound echoing off the high walls.

"But I _could_ be," I said, looping an arm around his waist, reckless. He leaned into it, warm, his neck smelling of coriander and musk.

What was I doing? I had no fucking idea.

And it felt utterly liberating.


	6. Progress

_**Author's Note:** Hi guys! Fast update this time, to make up for the delay for the last one. (: Also, **WARNING** : this chapter contains slightly sexual material, so if you're not comfortable with that, please do not proceed! Thanks for reading, as always!_

* * *

 **DRACO**

I woke up with a roaring headache and gritty eyes that needed multiple rubs in order to open.

Once they did, I immediately had no idea where I was. It didn't look like a dorm room, as there were no other beds. There was a desk, a dresser, and an open trunk with clothes spilling over the sides. There were also clothes on the floor, mixed in with random objects like quills and chocolate frogs.

If I had been trying to convince myself that this was my room, all notions of that now evaporated as I surveyed the disorder.

I pulled the covers over me to block out the sight. That is to say, I attempted to. There was some sort of resistance, so I tugged harder, but they only gave a few millimeters.

Fine. I really didn't have the fortitude or the patience to battle anything right now—even a textile—so I turned over. I found myself face to face with—

Fucking hell, I shouldn't even be surprised anymore.

The memories of the previous night (or was it early this morning?) came flooding back like a ton of bricks. The Three Broomsticks, the prefect's bathroom, the Fat Lady, this room...

Quickly, per protocol, I checked to see if I had any bottoms on.

I did not.

I held my breath, as if that would ensure that he'd continue sleeping.

He stirred, of course, and made some sort of unintelligible sound that was impossible to decipher, so I said nothing.

"Oh, mm. Morning," he continued sleepily, stifling a yawn.

"Yes, it is," I said matter-of-factly, my insides knotting themselves as I watched him smile. My impulse was to grin back like a fool, but I felt uneasy. Again, this feeling of being led into some sort of trap. "Did we shag?"

Might as well get that out of the way. There was no use for decorum, seeing as how I was lying naked and disoriented in his bed.

His eyes widened as if he'd never considered the remote possibility. _Honestly_. "Er, no!"

"Good," I said, to which he looked slightly hurt. Something in my chest clutched. "So... well. What _did_ happen?"

"You don't remember?" Merlin. Those eyes. Like a forlorn puppy.

"Well, I do remember you coming onto me," I replied, my tone ending up a bit teasing despite myself.

He sat up, looking indignant. "You didn't seem to have any objections. You told me that—that you'd... fantasized about it before." He reddened, and I could feeling my pulse flutter through my veins.

"What? I was referring to you snogging me while I was... being an idiot." I cringed inwardly, nauseous as I thought back to how I'd practically been bawling. One of the less desirable outcomes of Firewhisky. "That's hardly something that I'd fantasize about."

The crimson on his face deepened as he bit his lip.

Oh.

Fragments of images began to pepper my memory, resurfacing. Me sitting on the edge of this bed. Him kneeling between my thighs. His tongue. The heat.

I felt myself swell.

 _No. NO! Stop._

I cleared my throat, ignoring the prickly ring of warmth around my neck. "For the record, it was only _one_ fantasy, _one_ time, and I don't even recall the circumstances."

That was a lie. I knew _exactly_ the circumstances. It had been after the Yule Ball—seeing him kempt for once apparently did it for me, though I'd promptly quashed the thought, aghast with myself.

The second time had been over this past summer to the recollection of feeling his body pressed tight against mine when he'd flown us both out from the Fiendfyre. Completely twisted, I know. And this is why these are things I plan on never admitting.

"Right, well, as long as that's all that happened," I said nonchalantly, though I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince anymore.

"Um, right. Yeah." He fidgeted.

Oh.

I covered half my face with a hand, remembering it all now—how after he'd finished me, I'd insisted on returning the favor. For selfless reasons, of course. The sounds he'd made...

I was definitely hard now, and I thought about throwing caution to the wind. But by some sheer force of willpower (or years of practiced repression), I gathered more of the blanket towards myself, this time tugging more forcefully. He gave slack. "We can pretend this never happened," I told him.

"But... why?"

His words hung suspended in the filmy morning light, and my heart leapt to my throat.

"Isn't that what you want? You have a girlfriend. You like women. We abhor one another," I reminded him, each statement like a stake.

He was quiet. " _You_ don't want this. You're pushing me away."

Now it was my turn to have my tongue tied. "It's—it's not about what I want. You're the one with the variables, Potter."

"What do you want me to say?" He sunk down and huddled himself protectively in the blanket so that now we both looked like cocoons with heads. "Ginny and I left off weirdly... I said I needed time, she told me to get out. We've been writing one another but... I—my head's all gunked up. I've got to sort through some things."

"... by making yourself a member of my suicide watch?" I arched a brow.

"I dunno, maybe that's how I'm distracting myself from all the mess."

"Oh, brilliant. I'm a distraction."

He looked at me, exasperated. "Not what I meant—it's not always about you, you know!"

I felt myself go cold. "Very aware of that, thanks for the reminder."

His face fell, and he un-cocooned himself to scoot timidly towards me under the fabric, acting as if we'd done this a hundred times before. "Sorry. I'm not very good with..."

"Speech, yes. I know," I finished, not moving. Trying not to visualize him saying the same words to Weasley, cajoling.

"If you're asking me to explain why I kept checking in on you, I can't." I opened my mouth, retort ready, but he help up a hand, the tips of his fingers grazing my lips. "I think—this is going to sound weird—I think I see my... unhappiness reflected in you, and somehow I thought... maybe by helping you, I could find out how to fix myself. I dunno."

I grit my teeth to keep from saying anything too rash. "Well what needs to be fixed?"

He shrugged, looking down. "Exactly. I'm not sure. I miss people who are no longer here, and I'm plagued by guilt every bloody day. I'm constantly unsure of reality. I know what's good for me—I know that going through the motions is good. Fake it until you make it, that sort of thing. But I haven't made it yet, and I'm starting to question if I ever will. Sometimes, I just want to sleep. Simply sleep. Last night was the best sleep I've had in a while." His last words were shy.

His confession felt like something to keep swaddled and safe, as I knew exactly what he meant. It'd also been the best continuous, deep sleep I've had in a long time. But I didn't know how to respond—I've never been good at consoling people and I wasn't about to start. It made me uncomfortable. "You probably need to wank more often, then," I said, telling my face to smirk.

He looked at me, searching. I thought he might be angry with me, or disappointed, and I found myself not wanting either of those possibilities. "I can help with that," I added in an attempt to sound more, well, helpful.

He perked up visibly.

 _Always so easy to read._

"Don't look so eager about it," I said, drinking it up. "Let's not forget that you prefer women. For all you know, this could be an impetuous fluke."

He snorted. "Well what about Pansy?"

"What _about_ her?"

"You took her to the ball! You had your head in her lap on the train, looking very cosy. All that."

"She fancied me, and I let her live out her fantasies for a bit. Don't look so horrified, Potter. I've told her about my inclinations. We're still very good friends, if you must know."

"So... you've never fancied any girls?"

"No."

"Have you been with anyone... else?"

I found his lack of direct language in talking about being gay rather amusing. "You mean like last night? No."

He flushed pink. I liked making him color, though it wasn't very hard to do at all. "Really? But you were so good at..." His voice became small.

"I know." Now my smirk was real. I reached for him, and he shuddered with my touch.

"Are you sure?" he panted after a few seconds, covering my hand with his. "We don't really have the excuse of being plastered this time."

"Who says we need it?" I countered, moving my hand to a steady rhythm again.

A sound that was almost a mewl fell from his lips, and I felt myself ache.

"I—I don't abhor you, you know," he breathed, arching into my hold.

"That's progress," I said, my heart on the verge of beating out from my ribcage.

"I just wanted to you to know that."

I covered his mouth with mine, needing him to stop talking. Otherwise, I might actually start believing everything.


	7. Fear

_**Author's Note:** As always, thanks for continuing to read! (: Special shoutout to rebecca-in-blue—thanks for keeping up with this story and for your reviews! It's fun to hear what you think about all the silly drabble in my head, and gratifying to know that people are still reading!_

* * *

 **HARRY**

Over the next couple of weeks, I saw a lot of him. I asked the Fat Lady not to tell Violet. Or anyone, for that matter. Not because I was ashamed—I just wanted to be the one to say it, whatever needed saying. Thankfully, she had become pretty taken with me after the War, so she agreed. One of the positives that managed to come out of it all, I guess.

I'd gotten used to waking up with his lanky limbs tangled in mine, and the woodsy, citrusy scent he left on my pillowcases. I would sneak glances at him in the Great Hall, barely able to contain my smile. He would make a face in response, shaking his head.

Of course, I don't know why I thought any of this would escape Hermione's notice.

"Harry, you're still focused on passing your N.E.W.T.s, aren't you?" she whispered during a morning Transfiguration class.

"Of course I am!" I whispered back while waving my wand to this week's assignment.

"Okay, I'm just asking because—because you seem a little distracted lately," she continued as she conjured a miniature-sized cat to appear in front of her with seemingly little effort.

"Yeah, don't want to lose the upcoming Quidditch match." I flicked my wrist and a tiny cat with no back legs appeared, and it yowled complainingly.

"The next one is Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw," she said, pursing her lips as she tapped her wand on my cat's head, and hind legs sprouted from its lower body. Another tap, and it had a tail. It looked at her gratefully. "Gryffindor doesn't play again until March!"

I should've known that she of all people had the schedule memorized.

Caught in my lie, I still tried to see it through: "Have to keep training to be ahead of the curve."

She crossed her arms. "You've always been horrible at hiding things, you know. Why can't you just tell me?"

"Tell you what?" I evaded, watching my cat bathe itself.

"About... um, well, _Draco._ " She said his name in a way that I'd imagine her uttering an Unforgivable—a squeak. She glanced towards where he sat in the front left corner of the room.

I tried to keep a straight face, though I could already feel my ears warm. "What is there to tell?"

She tsk'd, now turning fully to face me. "Harry, I'm not blind! I see the way you two have been exchanging looks. Besides, I've witnessed the Fat Lady's portrait swing open in early the morning without anyone seeming to go through it, and then you come down into the Common Room to meet me half an hour later."

I keep telling Hermione to seriously consider a career in being a detective.

"And _don't_ tell me that there are two Invisibility Cloaks floating about the school," she added, as if reading my desperate thoughts.

Her cat jumped over to my table with a leap of dexterity and sniffed my cat. The circled each other.

Cornered, I masked my guilt with a slight scowl. "Okay, fine! We're—we've sort of become friends, okay? Is that alright with you?" I made sure that the last bit came out sarcastic.

"Just friends?"

I couldn't banish the stinging in my cheeks. I found myself wishing I had Draco's poker face. Maybe even the sneer.

"Harry!" She looked shocked, though I couldn't fathom _why_ , since she'd basically spent the last few minutes pressing me to admit it. "But—but what about Ginny? I thought the two of you were going to give it another go?"

I shook my head impatiently. "Pretty sure she doesn't want to see me any time soon."

"But she does," Hermione said softly. "She still cares, you know."

"And I still care about her! Just. Maybe not. How a boy... friend. Would," I bit out fumblingly. "Or, I dunno! I really can't explain it, Hermione. Please don't ask me to."

She didn't. Her eyes were pleading, however. "At least tie up loose ends with her before you—you, er, tryst with someone else. It's the right thing to do."

"It's not a _tryst_ ," I said harshly, feeling my hackles rise, though I had no alternative suggestion.

"Harry, I'm sorry—I guess all I'm trying to say is—you should probably figure things out with yourself (and Ginny) before diving into something else entirely without even knowing if it's good for you or not!"

"It _is_ good for me!" I as loudly as I dared while whispering, though this didn't stop Hermione from swiftly hitting me with a cautionary _Quietus._ "I feel loads better whenever I'm with him. He gets what I'm going through, and..." _And he helps me sleep. Helps me forget._ "... yeah."

She considered this, brow furrowing as she watched our cats pounce at each others' tails. "Well... when are you going to tell everyone?"

"Whenever I feel like it."

Her face was the picture of worry.

"Aren't you the least bit happy for me?" I hated how imploring I sounded.

"I am," she said carefully, twirling ends of her hair between her fingers. "But it just seems so... so sudden. And it's hard to forget the past, you know."

I knew she had a point, though I wasn't about to tell her so. "He _'s_ changed, Hermione. He's gone through a lot, like I have, and he's not the same person he was. Believe me."

Now she seemed tired. "We've _all_ been through a lot. Maybe you're right... I don't know. But I'll believe it when I see it. All I want is for you to be okay, for Ginny to be okay, for... everyone to be okay." I saw her eyes moisten, which always made me drop whatever I was trying to prove. At least temporarily.

"I'll talk to her, I promise. If you promise not to tell Ron," I said, wondering if she already had.

"Okay, I won't." She wiped her eyes. I tried conjuring a pack of tissues, but only two appeared, looking slightly worn. She took them, smiling shakily. "Thanks. We're really going to have to work on your conjuration if you're to pass your N.E.W.T.s."

I pulled her into a fierce hug, infinitely glad that she continued to choose to be my friend after all these years. Our cats were now napping with each other on my desk, tiny purrs escaping their tiny bodies.

"Okay, here, I'm going to return your volume to normal..."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw McGonagall watching us. She turned away slightly when she saw me looking.

I could've sworn that I saw a faint smile.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"They fear light and warmth... Fire, Harry."

I whirled around in the darkness, trying to locate the voice belonging to one of the people I yearned to see.

"Sir?" I called out, eyes darting around, though there was nothing to take in.

Then a faint blue light illuminated in the distance—there was no telling how far away it was—and I could make out a figure with half-moon spectacles and a long white beard in the glow.

"Dumbledore!" I cried, feeling a rush to my chest. "I mean—Professor! I'm so glad you're here—I've been meaning to give the Elder Wand back to you." I approached him, and he opened his arms slowly, dust falling from the sleeves of his robes.

"It's no good with me. I don't trust myself with it," I rambled happily, going to embrace him. However, as I drew near, I suddenly noticed how his eyes were a filmy, blank white, and his skin was deeply grooved, cheek sallow, hair rotting off his head.

His mouth opened, and a stench wafted through the gaps of missing and discolored teeth.

"Fuck!" I bellowed, jumping back as a skeletal hand reached towards me demandingly.

Quickly reciting an incantation, a rope of fire leapt out from the tip of the wand and went to tightly wind itself around Dumbledore. The top of my skull prickled with panic.

He began laughing—a horrible, misshapen sound—and the flames fanned out from his body rapidly in a wide radius, lighting up the darkness. I ran, but the fire followed, taking the form of a tangle of snakes, a furnace of dragons.

" _Aguamenti!_ " I shouted desperately, but the water absorbed hopelessly into the inferno, steam rising each time it hit.

"Death is but the next great adventure!" I heard him say, cackling maniacally. "Die, Harry! Just give in! What are you fighting for? _Die_."

I tripped on a shoelace and stumbled to the ground.

"Farewell, Harry Potter..." The hiss surrounded my ears, and I yelled out, feeling my body beginning to be digested by the flames.

"Potter!" A different voice filtered through the smell of burning flesh.

"POTTER." It was more insistent this time, and the ground beneath me rumbled and shook, a jagged chasm opening.

I was falling endlessly.

"HARRY."

I woke with a start, sitting up so quickly that my shoulder clipped something solid.

"Fuck!"

I turned towards the exclamation and found a blurry, bare-chested Draco clutching his jaw. My own chest heaved with adrenaline, my brain still reeling, and I reached out to him blindly. "Sorry! I—Are you okay?!"

He evaded my hands. "Are _you_ okay, you raving lunatic? You were about to take my eyes out with all your flailing." I detected a sliver of worry mixed in with the annoyance.

"I—I dreamed about Dumbledore."

"And what, were you trying to _murder_ him?"

"Yeah, actually..."

I could sense that he was staring at me. Then he came into focus as he moved closer—first his face, then the rest. I felt a hand, cool and dry, move against my forehead, then run through my hair, combing it back with even, soothing motions.

"That feels nice," I mumbled, resting my chin on the crook of his neck, inhaling.

He shushed me as the world went dark once again.


End file.
